


looking in from the dark

by driedvoices



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedvoices/pseuds/driedvoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph has a bad night. Damian makes waffles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	looking in from the dark

A woman dies on Batgirl's watch, and Robin is there to bear witness. 

He entertains the notion of time slowing down, but in actuality it happens quickly; the softness of her jaw tenses into a yell of horror, and just as fast she clenches it down, kicks the gun out of the shooter's hands and lands a punch that drives three teeth out of his mouth. By the time she's finished, Robin counts at least two cracked ribs, a radial fracture, and a shattered collarbone. It would have been beautiful to observe in full, but he had his own thug to worry about—he was _busy_ , he was—

Distracted. 

Batgirl kneels down beside the fallen woman, takes her hand. It's too tender, too naked a display while she's in uniform. He tries to imagine himself doing the same and has to hold back a wince. 

"Batgirl," he says instead, "there is nothing more we can do for her."

"I _know_ that, Robin, I just—"

There are sirens in the distance—they hadn't been _quiet_. "We need to leave _now_ , you damnable woman."

"Sure," she says shortly, straightening up. Her mouth is pursed in the tight line that means she's upset with him for not acting like a human being, but her hands are still so gentle when she smooths the woman's dress down over her arms. "Cave or bunker, D?"

"No real names in the field!" he hisses, but she's already shot her grapple, already started swinging toward the Cave. Robin curses, and follows her.

 

-

 

Stephanie is usually fastidious, stripping off after patrol and jumping in the shower without a modicum of modesty. It wasn't something he'd meant to notice, but he had, and when he brought it to her attention she looked at him strangely but laughed and said it must have been something she picked up from Drake, which was not an image that Damian had particularly wanted in his brain.

Then she had leaned across him to reach for something, and her damp hair had still smelled so strongly of shampoo, had begun to curl at the ends, had been close enough to touch, and Damian had thought it best to not think about it anymore.

Until now, as she sits in her undersuit, knees pulled to her chest and city grime caking her skin. Damian expects her to shower after he does, busies himself around the Cave while she makes no attempt to move. There is blood drying in her hair. If she asked, Damian would wash it out for her. If she asked—

She will not ask. He clears his throat. "There's blood in your hair," he says simply. 

She touches to fingers to it absently. "What else is new," she murmurs. "I think I should head home for the night, D. Been a long day."

"You never leave without eating first," Damian says automatically. She winces, and he realizes that she probably took it as a jibe. Any other time, it would have been. "I—share a meal with me, first."

She blinks, and he regrets the tone of command, but then she says, "Wow, when did you learn how to share?" and the anxiety shrinks. 

"Kitchen," he says in lieu of antagonizing her. There are other times for that. She nods, and follows him up the stairs. 

"Alfred's probably asleep, you know," she calls over her shoulder, fingers grazing the walls as she passes. 

"There is no need to wake him," Damian replies. "I am more than capable of fulfilling so easy a task as sating your undignified palette."

"Ooh, so much for that new leaf," Stephanie says, but there's no heat behind it and even less playfulness. Damian frowns, pulling the milk and eggs from the refrigerator while she takes up a barstool at the counter. "From scratch? Show-off."

"I learn quickly." He keeps his voice prim and even; it is none of her concern that he specifically asked Alfred to teach him this particular recipe, and even less so that his request came directly after a night wherein Stephanie consumed enough waffles for four people and declared that she would marry anyone who fixed her waffles on a daily basis. She has no reason to care about any of that. He adds more sugar to the batter.

"That's too much," she says warily, raising an eyebrow.

"I know what I'm doing," he gripes. "Please forgive me if I have trouble believing you're a purist."

"Hardy har." Stephanie rests her chin in her hands. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"I am hungry; your stomach is the proverbial abyss. I see no reason why not."

"I'm a big girl, D. Sometimes I have bad days. I cope."

"You are not coping," he says loudly, pouring batter into the waffle iron. "You are wallowing, and you are blaming yourself—"

"Because I didn't do my job!" Stephanie explodes. "I should have saved her, Damian, that's what I'm _here_ for. I could have been quicker, I could have—"

"There was _nothing_ you could have done! You performed as adequately as ever. The criminal was apprehended. The victim's death was tragic but unpreventable. And before you begin to imply that your guilt is incomprehensible to me, I do understand the value of human life. I also understand the value of the work you do. Furthermore," he says, quieting, "I do not believe you should have to 'cope' on your own. I—had been led to believe that this is one of the manners in which you are accustomed to dealing with stress, and I thought—I _wanted_ to help. Forgive me if I have overstepped." 

Stephanie stares at the granite of the countertop for a long time. "I wouldn't have said that," she mumbles finally. "I know you're not that kid anymore. You've learned so much, Damian."

I learned from you, he thinks. "I could not have stopped the shooter, either," is what he says. 

Stephanie blinks. "Don't try to lie to make me feel better, I _promise_ , it won't—"

"Grayson once told me," he interrupts, glancing away, "that Batman has to know the difference between shooting a bullet and failing to step in front of one."

"And you think there would have been no other way?" 

"I do," he replies. "But that's irrelevant."

"I don't—gah," she moans, hiding her face in her hands. Please don't, Damian thinks desperately, and valiantly resists the urge to pry her fingers from her cheeks. "How do I make peace with—not saving someone when I can, just because of what it would cost me? I'm not worth more than anyone else."

You are to me—no. That is not the right answer, not now. "It is not a question of worth, Brown," he says, chewing the inside of his lip. "Your death would have solved nothing. Your dwelling on the matter solves nothing. Your continued existence gives you the opportunity to do more good. So do it."

She looks up at him, her wide, full mouth stretched into a pained smile. It's dim and small but he will take it. 

"You are not to blame," he finishes, and that is her hand, reaching across the counter to touch his face. Every bone in his body is saying recoil, not because he does not wish for her to touch him, because he still believes she is _unworthy_ to touch him, but because if she makes contact she will feel the slight tremor running through his body and the heat of his cheeks, and he will not be able to stop himself from leaning into her palm. 

Somewhere, his mother is laughing at him.

But Stephanie draws back at the last moment, says, "Oh, shit, the waffles!" and Damian turns his attention to the small curls of black smoke rising from the waffle iron. By the time he gets them out, they—well, they aren't completely black, and Stephanie gnaws on her lower lip in thought before she says, "I'll still eat them."

"No surprises there," he says loftily, and fetches the syrup. 

"If we're being realistic," she admits while he pours, "these will probably not be the worst waffles I've ever eaten."

"Remind me never to come to dinner at your house," he says, and takes a bite. His entire mouth is coated in a flavor not unlike black tar. He swallows and chokes a little, looking to Stephanie, who is chewing happily. She catches his eye and makes a face at him.

"Thanks, by the way," she says, mouth full.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Damian hums.

"I know you don't," she says, leaning across the counter once more—oh. Her lips are sticky on his cheek, and warm and they cling as though reluctant when she pulls away. Damian's eyes are wide and his mouth is gaping cavernously and the syrupy outline of Stephanie's kiss is on his face. "But thanks anyway."

He clears his throat. "Your waffles will get cold, Steph."

She brightens at her name. Damian takes another bite. 

It's not bad.


End file.
